Fillmore the Brave
by Grips
Summary: The local hippie is being bullied! Can the townsfolk help toughen him up, or will he learn the hard way to stand up for himself? Chapter 3 is up, rating has been changed to be safe. Sarge/Fillmore
1. Chapter 1

Rated: PG - 13 for violence and language

Chapter One

"That one is, uh, ten dollars."

The day was picturesque. One of those pleasantly warm, cloudless days that drew in tourists like moths to light until every gift shop and local store was full to the brim with people wanting to buy.

Fillmore's Taste In was no exception, but unlike the rest of the shopkeepers, an overly busy day might not be the best for business at the hippie's dome.

He was currently backed against the large drums of fuel that served as samplers. Before him was one of the largest groups of cars to have ever visited his store, at least since the old days. The round bus seemed to swell with pride at the attention, and he smiled broadly at the group, trying in his slow and patient way to explain what each of the different drinks contained. The only problem was keeping up with all of them, and it didn't seem like every vehicle there had the purest of intentions.

Two younger cars noted Fillmore's missing mirror with snickering glee. While he was busy showing an elderly car one of his grape flavoured fuels, explaining it's contents at length with great enthusiasm, the two teenagers quickly swiped several full cans of fuel that he had at the ready lest anyone want to purchase them.

Of course, the bus was blissfully unaware, though even he was starting to feel slightly antsy at the amount of cars crowding around, as more drove up to replace the two thieves who had departed. Some were getting annoyed and weren't afraid to express it, and all the slow-at-best bus could do was mumble apologies with a smile and try his best.

Another car, taking an example from the two children, took this opportunity to grab another can of fuel, and was just making off with it while Fillmore was giving a sample to an elderly woman when the unmistakable voice of Sarge barked from over the fence.

"Hey!! Drop that this instant, young man!" he said, peering with a supremely annoyed expression through the holes in the fence. "I don't think my neighbor is running a charity!"

The car dropped the can of fuel and sped off, blushing. Sarge, engine rumbling with annoyance, drove around the fence, over the rock barrier between his lawn and the road, and into Fillmore's all natural lawn, where he puffed himself up and glared at the rest of the patrons. The bus watched him with wide (for him) eyes, saying nothing.

"Now listen, the rest of you lot! Form a line, single file! No more pushing, no more crowding, no more stealing! The next one of you I catch taking something without permission will be dragged bodily to the courthouse to have a talk with the Sheriff here! I'll make sure your punishment involves time at my boot camp! Come on, move!"

All of the cars stood watching him in wide-eyed silence.

"I said MOVE!"

They all sprung into action, one or two of them fleeing, but for the most part obeying his orders and forming a line, the elderly lady at the front.

"Better," Sarge said.

"Well, you can say that again!" said the elderly car. "I'll take two cans of this grape stuff, young man," she said to Fillmore.

"Ahaha, haven't been called that in a while..." the bus said. "Grape, grape... here ya go. I'll give you a discount for that one. Nonono, really, I insist..."

The rest of the business day went smoothly. The customers remained in an orderly line until sundown, whispering here and there about the cranky old Jeep who had yelled at them all from the surplus store next door. Just to make sure he wasn't forgotten, when he had no customers Sarge would return to drive up and down the line and shoot dirty looks at anyone who snickered or didn't seem to take order and politeness seriously.

Both shops closed at the same time. Fillmore had no further incident, and as the sun set in pink and purple splendor, they met at the fence, speaking through it.

"Thanks for that, Sarge," Fillmore said. "I didn't even know they were stealin' stuff. Where's the love, huh? I mean, if they keep doin' that I'll go out of business."

Sarge grumphed. "You're right, you will. You'll end up sleeping with scrap like Mater -- "

"Heeey, that's Mater's choice, if he wants to slee -- "

"Oh, knock it off, that's not the point! The point is, hippie, that you need to toughen up a little bit! Show some bearings! You let those kids walk all over you! Think of the money you lost today. From now on I think you should have a designated line, yes, that's right, and maybe a lock to keep your fuel safe. I can't be policing your customers all the time."

Fillmore frowned. "I dunno, man, that's not really my style..."

"Your style will be 'homeless bum' if you keep being so lazy and naive!"

Fillmore stuck his bottom lip out moodily. "I don't wanna scare them away..."

"Now look, that's your problem, right there! You're a doormat! Why, your business would be ten times as successful if you ran it with more profession! Hell, I make twice what you make!"

Fillmore shook his front end. "Nuh uh. I like runnin' things my way, you like runnin' things your way. It's about trusting your customers, man. They're my friends and they're helping spread the word about organic fuel..."

"Oh, suit yourself, bus! But I'm warning you - " Sarge jabbed an accusing tire, poking at the fence " - that 'I don't give a crap' attitude of your is going to get you into real trouble someday, mark my words, and I won't always be there to help you!"

Sarge gave Fillmore one last beady-eyed glare before turning to head back inside, but Fillmore was pressing his flat face against the fence.

"Saaaarge..."

The Jeep stopped dead, frame stiff with anger as he turned to look at him from the literal corner of his eye.

"WHAT. Oh, don't do that, stop, I'm not kissing you."

He turned and went inside. Fillmore shrugged his frame a bit, sadly, and did the same.

Chapter Two coming soon... 


	2. Chapter 2

Rated PG - 13 for language, violence and drug references

Chapter Two

The next day was Sunday. No one really worked on Sundays in Radiator Springs. It was a day when everything shut down so that the townsfolk could enjoy things as it used to be - quiet. Sure, they enjoyed the hustle and bustle and money of the town now that it was the racing headquarters of the famous Lightning McQueen, but most of them were getting on in years, and a day off was welcome.

Fillmore took this particular day off to gather supplies. He woke at sunrise, as he often did, to the blaring sound of revielle being played by his neighbor. With a smile and a cavernous yawm, he stretched and rolled out of his rarely-cleaned beanbag bed and coasted to his record player, blinking the blurry sleep from his eyes.

Just as revielle reached it's midpoint, Fillmore set the needle down on the now-spinning record and cranked the volume. Hendrix screeched to life, and the only thing louder than the competing sounds was Sarge's bellow.

"HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS?!" his voice roared from outside.

"As long as you keep yelling about it..." Fillmore mumbled to himself with a smirk, before rolling outside. Sarge, as usual, was in a fit of rage, his frame heaving as he sucked in sharp breaths, spotting the bus and zeroing in on him with murderous glare.

"Chiiill, Sarge, just relax," he said, as both songs came to an end. Sarge said nothing, though it looked as if fire and brimstone were going to start flying from his grille. "I have an idea. I gotta go out to the woods and collect berries today. Nothing like gettin' them all natural, it's a plus living in the middle of nowhere sometimes. I thought you might wanna come with me..."

Sarge deflated. He regarded the bus for a long time before nodding.

"Sure," he said in a surprisingly agreeable tone. It appeared that rage was so routine it was almost like flicking off a lightswitch after their morning ritual. "Do you need help carrying anything?"

"Naaah, just haulin' the old trailer, nothin' but blueberries and blackberries today."

Sarge nodded and looked around. When it was clear it was too early for anyone to be passing, the drove into the hippie's lawn and the two went inside his dome. Here, Fillmore hooked himself up to a ratty looking wooden trailer.

They traveled as two who knew their route by heart, chatting (bickering) the whole way. When they arrived, it was approaching noon. A light, dusty trail headed into a rocky and wooded area. They stopped here, and Fillmore began to search. Bees and butterflies floated around them, though the bus most of all, the flower loving insects attracted to his brightly coloured sides and bumping against him in confusion. Fillmore chuckled.

"Oh, look, blackberries!" he said, gesturing with a tire. Even Sarge was in a good mood at this point, a good enough mood to draw closer to his friend and rub against him affectionately. The two began picking the berries in silence, Fillmore with the delicate treads of his tires, Sarge with his antenna, which he used to flick them from their stems and expertly into the waiting containers.

After several hours, all the containers were full. Fillmore's front tires and Sarge's antenna were stained purple, and both looked hot, tired, and happy. Sarge suddenly revved his engine and headed down the path. Fillmore knew where he was going, and smiled and followed.

He came to a break in the trees, where a smooth, glistening lake rested amoung tall blades of grass and seedy, puffy white dandelions, releasing their spores and creating a natural confetti effect that made Fillmore's heart swell and Sarge's grille itch. The Jeep wasted no time in diving into the water, the blue liquid quickly stained with dirt from his churning tires. He stopped midway in to cool himself, and Fillmore followed.

As he rested in the water, not quite as deep as his friend, he heard twigs snap behind him, and tilted his mirror to get a look at whatever it was. There was nothing, and he shrugged it off. The hippie often heard things, and was quite used to it.

When both had cooled sufficiently, Fillmore drove to Sarge and kissed his flank before speaking.

"Umm, mind if I get my, uh, other stash...?" he mumbled.

"I thought I told you to give that up!" Sarge snapped, his mood doing an about face and causing Fillmore to wince.

"It's the only safe place..."

"It's ILLEGAL is what it is, and I won't have anything to do with it! You should have more respect for the laws of your country."

Fillmore lowered his eyes. "I love my country but not the government, man..."

Sarge hauled himself from the water. Fillmore held out a small tire to try and stop him, but to no avail.

"You can collect that yourself! I'm leaving, I don't want to hear another word!"

Fillmore's frame sagged, but he said nothing as Sarge left, leaving him and his trailer alone at the beach. He moped around in the water for a while, and then pulled himself out as well, hitching himself back up and following the hidden trail to his stash, the smelly plants growing in a concealed thicket.

"Oooh, you guys are growing well," he said to himself with a smile, picking a bud. It was then that he heard the noise from behind him again, and this time when he turned his mirror to look, expecting to see nothing, or at the most a bird in the trees, his eyes shot open at the sight of a smirking face behind him.

"So thiiis is where you keep it," said the car, a modded red Honda Civic hatchback. Fillmore didn't catch the dangerous tone behind his voice.

"Oops, you caught me," he said with a smile. "If you want some, I don't mind sharing."

"Oh no, you misunderstand us," said a female voice from his other side. Fillmore shivered. "We want all of it, and since your boyfriend is gone, I'm sure we'll have no trouble taking it." 


	3. Chapter 3

Fillmore, though slow on the best of days, knew he was in for it.

The red Honda tuner approached him from one side, a devious smirk on his bumper. On his other side, a bigger, female car closed in on him, though his missing mirror made it impossible to discern her appearance.

"L-listen, guys," the bus stammered "We can work this out. There's plenty to go around..."

He was jostled roughly by the woman. The ache in his side told him she had probably dented his frame, and he shook with fear.

"Okay, okay, you can have it all! Help yourselves!"

The little male Honda had pulled away from his side when he realized the hippie wasn't going to put up a fight. He was picking the buds and putting them in Fillmore's trailer, which he had unhitched, as well as uprooting some of the plants.

Fillmore gasped when he felt a front tire hook around his own and wrench him close in a restraining grasp.

"Hey, why the hostility?" he said in what he hoped was a friendly voice.

The woman spoke. By the tone of her voice it was clear she was the leader of the pair, and used to being in charge.

"We don't want you running off and blabbing to everyone about what we've done. You're not going anywhere."

Fillmore gulped. Surely they would have to let them go once they were finished?

He waited in terrified silence as the Honda continued to load the trailer. He once considered calling for help, but he knew the area was deserted, and Sarge would be long gone.

He suddenly felt himself released from the painful grip of the woman's tire. He tried to back up, but his rear end bumped against the Honda, who was blocking the path and pushed him roughly with his front end to keep him in one spot.

The other car had now driven into his view, and he saw now that she was a yellow and white Buick GSX. She smiled at him, and the bus, funnily enough, smiled back nervously, but it was quickly wiped from his mouth as she punched him with a wheel square in the front of his flat face.

Tears sprung to his eyes from the dent she left there, and he cringed close to the forest floor with a grunt of pain, eyes shut tightly.

"Like I said," the Buick spoke calmly. "We don't want you telling anyone in a hurry. Kevin, grab his back tires."

The other car did just that, surprisingly strong for his size, and Fillmore kicked in panic, but the Buick landed him another punch that took away what little fight he had.

The Honda spoke.

"Why don't we pop his tires? That'll keep him stuck here for a while."

"C'mon, guys, we can work this out..." Fillmore groaned.

His heart suddenly leapt when he heard a familiar, gruff voice echoing through the trees.

"Bus?! Where the hell are you?"

"Oh, great..." Kevin muttered, and the Buick had shoved her tire forcibly over Fillmore's mouth to stifle any calls for help.

Sarge, however, found tracking them, especially Fillmore, easy enough, since they had left a good trail of tire tracks and scattered, broken vegetation as they had traversed through the woods. He drove up behind Kevin, who whirled on him.

"What the - ?!" was all Sarge had time to say before he was hit in the grille. The Honda blinked in surprise when he only snuffled and winced, then gave him a perturbed look and raised his own heavily treaded tire to return the blow. As he struck him, he turned his wheel at the last minute and let his heavy bolts strike his headlight, which shattered with a pop and a fizzle.

"Oh, Chrysler!" Kevin yelped, holding a tire to the large dent on his hood and his busted headlight. "Mabel, help me out!"

Fillmore felt himself violently shoved to the side as the Buick rushed to get at the Jeep. She butted him with her sharply angled front and he skidded backward into a tree, stunned for a few seconds, which was enough time for the two of them to close in on him.

Sarge was tough as nails, but a bit behind the times, and as he opened his eyes he realized he didn't stand a chance unless he and Fillmore worked together.

"Hippie, come on!" Sarge growled as he dragged himself to his tires and started to fight back. He was so fearless and experienced in combat that at first the two cars were stunned, but they soon retaliated, and though they were covered in dents and scrapes, Sarge was started to fall under their combined efforts.

Fillmore did a dance of anxiety on the spot. He had never fought in his life, but if he didn't now, then what? He realized he had little choice, and dove for the Buick, grabbing her back tire and twisting.

She hadn't expected the peaceful bus to do anything of the sort, and was totally unprepared. She screeched in pain as her axle was twisted, and Fillmore refused to let go, though there was a look of supreme guilt and fear on his face even as he held on for dear life. It seemed the Buick was unable to do much of anything when he had her in his hold, and he realized he must have bent her axle.

"Hold her there, Fillmore!" Sarge roared, and took his chance to lunge once again at Kevin, who yelped in fear.

"Mabel, help! I can't handle this guy by myself!"

As soon as the words had left him, Sarge neatly dented the other side of his face and put his left headlight out of use, too. Panic stricken and blinded by pain, he fled, leaving Mabel alone with the two.

Sarge was nearly mad with rage, and he drove to face her and glowered.

"Picking on a peacenick in the middle of the woods so you can steal drugs! It doesn't get much lower than that, does it!?" he bellowed, and she merely scowled at him. He raised a tire to give her the same treatment that her friend had gotten ...

"No, Sarge!" Fillmore said.

His tire stopped inches from her headlight, and he let it fall back to the ground with a grumble.

"There's no point," the bus continued, and he let her go.

"You're gonna regret that," she said, but she could barely stand straight. Fillmore wondered with more guilt if he had broken her axle, but she said no more. Sarge growled at her like some kind of guard dog when she limped past, but let her go otherwise unmolested.

When she was gone, he drove to Fillmore and embraced him with his tires.

"Are you okay, bus?" he said, eying the considerable dent on his nose.

"M'fine," he said with a smile. "Thanks for rescuing me. My hero." He batted his eyelids for effect.

Sarge rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide a smile.

"You know, you did well, soldier. I thought I was a goner. I guess I underestimated you."

Fillmore's mirror drooped sadly. "I didn't like doing that, man. Not one bit. I only did it for you."

Sarge frowned angrily. "Now listen here! You could have easily taken those two cowards if you had've stood up for yourself from the get go! I won't always be around to save your ass when you get into trouble, and we can't rely on Sheriff to solve this one since we can't tell him you're growing illegal drugs in the woods! I don't think we've seen the last of them, and I can't have bodyguards on you all the time!"

"I'm a lover, not a fighter. You know that, sirdude."

Sarge's tone changed. "If you care about me, then you'll care about yourself. This isn't about picking fights. I just want you to be ready if someone ever tried that again. If I ever lost you..." he trailed off. That admittance was enough.

Fillmore nuzzled Sarge, then pulled back with a wince. He had forgotten his injury. Both of them were covered in dents and scrapes.

"What are we going to tell everyone back at Radiator Springs?" said Sarge.

"I dunno. Rough sex?"

Sarge rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to personally give you self defense classes," he said, refusing to respond to the joke. "We're going to toughen you up whether you like it or not." 


End file.
